


En Route

by amare



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Class Differences, Father-Son Relationship, M/M, Post-Game, the other MC in this is Dorian's self-loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 19:52:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4032532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amare/pseuds/amare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian struggles to find his place as the Inquisition evolves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	En Route

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to all of the lovely, patient people who suffered through the process of my writing this. Especially [Scout](http://archiveofourown.org/users/queertitan/pseuds/queertitan), for his usual awesomeness, and [Ossobuco](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ossobuco), for being a general saint and my wise mentor on all things DA.

Ferelden-made windows let in hazy, mottled rays that backlight the dragon skull throne. The throne, and its _tusks_ , overlooks Andrastian statues and dirty-gold Orlesian rugs.

While it follows that a Dalish elf fresh from the Free Marches wouldn't grasp much beyond the aesthetics of some lovely tree branches and strategically placed piles of rock, Lavellan's attempt at inclusion looks more likely to offend sensibilities than to soothe them.

The impaled eye of the Inquisition stares down at Dorian from its perch high on the wall.

"You are going to cause a diplomatic incident," Dorian says to it. He hopes for a moment that the Inquisitor will tear down the symbol of his own cause and put up a nice coat of arms instead.

"Enjoying yourself?" said Inquisitor asks from behind him.

Lavellan stands at Dorian's side, observing the throne room with assessing eyes as though trying to see it through Dorian's, Maker bless him. Not one stitch of clothing whispered on his walk over, and even his heavy boots obeyed early morning's hush. Elves. Always so light on their feet.

"Oh, you know me. I like to burn my own eyes before I start the day. It's more effective than a tonic for alertness."

Lavellan leans forward and brushes his fingers against one of the tusks, considering. The light favors the long tip of his ear and the solemn slopes of his profile. "It is a bit much, isn't it? Varric suggested we try and look inviting, for visitors."

"Varric's flair is contained to the pen, my dear, not to matters of design or careful diplomacy."

Lavellan turns his face to Dorian then, a hitch of his eyebrow to match the curl at the side of his mouth. "I should have asked you. I was surprised when you didn't immediately veto dragging this in here," he says, patting the tusk fondly.

"It's _your_ Inquisition, and your holding. Your money, too. You know what they'll say if I do it. 'I've seen this look before—it's very Tevinter brothel.'" Dorian shakes his head. "It isn't like your quarters. My hand in this would be too obvious, and it would do more harm than good."

Lavellan's small sigh shifts his shoulders. "I'll leave it like this," he says eventually, like a warning. "Are you telling me there's not one thing you'd change?"

After a moment, Dorian concedes, "Maybe the rugs. I wouldn't wipe my ass with those rugs."

Lavellan smiles. "The rugs, then."

The shuffle of servants behind them, lighting torches and setting tables for yawning visitors wandering in for coffee and morning gossip, slowly takes them from each other. Lavellan gives a glancing touch to the small of Dorian's back in farewell, and Dorian clears out before some well-meaning new arrival tries to talk his ear off about his role in Corypheus' defeat.

He does sneak a tart from the kitchens, though.

* * *

The next time he sees the rugs, servants are carrying them out of the hall and into storage. The statues have been changed too; now an Old God sits next to a beatific and crowned Andraste. Dorian's nearly run over by a group of red-faced men lugging in a statue of the elven All-Father. The hall is still mismatched, even if it looks purposeful now, but there are stately touches of Lavellan's Dalishness, which has been missing of late.

The Inquisition's eye remains. Dorian entertains another a fantasy of ripping it down, but that reminds him too much of his mother's crusade to decorate their several homes in styles his father abhorred. She'd wasted piles of money on spite, and for a while his father painted over her attempts in a quiet war, but eventually he gave up and let her do what she would. As if he didn't care if she drained their accounts with velvet drapes and tapestries.

 _"It gives her a task,"_ his father had wearily told him, when Dorian protested the slaves boxing up his library so they could repaint his quarters in some new scheme. _"Let her have her diversions."_

Dorian can appreciate the sentiment. A good diversion would come in handy. Perhaps it might even stop his thoughts of Tevinter, or his growing unrest as Skyhold assembles itself into new order with no real place—no _duty_ —for him. Every day, Lavellan shuts himself up with his advisors or nicks his fingers on piles of paperwork, and every day Dorian wanders the grounds or reorganizes books, occasionally making a presentation of himself when visiting dignitaries come to gawk at the Inquisitor and his merry band.

At night, he usually sleeps with Lavellan. Even that isn't as much solace as it should be. Too many nights spent in tents in deplorable conditions have finally ruined him for simple pleasures.

A servant brings a letter bearing the Pavus seal as Dorian eats lunch. He foregoes tucking into a chicken leg to open it, ignoring the hammer of his heart. His father still churns his stomach, and that power makes Dorian feel worse than nearly anything his father could say, at this point.

_Dorian,_

_I was pleased to hear of your safe return to Skyhold, and I have been informed you resumed residency there. Your last letter was uncertain of your future plans. While it is true that the Inquisitor's standing in Tevinter has somewhat improved, you know the cost of remaining at his side, should you ever seek to return. I shall not remind you. Before you curse my name, know it is not my opinion you need concern yourself with, and that—should you care for knowing it—I find virtue in the man. As I continue to do in you. I wish you well in your endeavors, whatever they may be._

_Preparations have begun for the harvest. I will send a basket of the apples you so enjoyed in your youth with my next letter._

_— H_

Dorian crumples the letter. He nearly sets it alight, but at the last moment he finds himself smoothing it out and reading it over again. What his father left out spoke volumes, and what he included is shockingly forthright, for him. He used the family seal, even, and tongues will wag until they strain if it becomes known he's writing to his outcast son. 

What he tells Dorian is primarily between the lines— _oh, sure, cavort around with your knife-eared heretic, but don't expect any welcome, especially if you take up your little crusade again; I tolerate this foolishness but I won't support you openly; P.S., please recall a fond detail of your childhood so I might pluck the strings of nostalgia_ —but it's all so achingly obvious. He doesn't bother to address the questions Dorian asked of him in his last missive, doesn't speak a word of his mother, and ties it up with a lovely bow of reminding Dorian that somewhere in his father's corroded heart, there are actual feelings for his son. This is his father doing his best. This is his father _loving_ him.

It's several steps up from committing him to a life of misery, or potentially blasting his entire self from his body like a pesky head cold to be rid of, but it still burns.

Dorian takes out a pen and graciously thanks him for the offer of apples, but inquires as to whether or not his father will stand for him at court. He includes a leading comment about the Inquisitor's _prowess_ in unspecified areas and signs his name with a flourish at the end of it.

It's not enough to quell him, so Dorian takes the stairs down to the courtyard and blasts ice at wooden practice shields until they crack.

* * *

His father sends a basket of luscious apples, pink-red skins speckled with gold and gleaming with the remnants of potion used to preserve them during their journey. They're so sweet they made him close his eyes. As juice whets his tongue, he savors the memory of climbing orchard trees to steal a few, then plucking them with magic when he realized climbing dirtied his clothes. Halward also sent a wagon's worth of volumes boxed up from Dorian's old library—that's the way of apologies in his family; they shove money and _things_ at it until it goes away, but in this case the gesture is nearly thoughtful. His father must have noticed how close Dorian came to ending their tentative exchange, and the books are his way of smoothing ruffled feathers.

There are rather too many to cram onto the paltry and already stuffed shelves of Skyhold's library. Dorian agonizes all morning over knowing what he needs to do but absolutely not wanting to. By noon, his patience is sapped, and he calls for servants to set about cleaning up and reorganizing.

He tells himself that any coin spent will be incidental. A drop in a bucket that overflows into a lake.

By the time he seeks Lavellan out, it's dusk and time for supper. He has to drag him away from his papers and Varric, who looks harried and ink-smudged instead of bemused, as he's wont to do recently, but Lavellan seems grateful when Dorian sits him down and plunks a bowl of stew in front of him.

"By the way," Dorian says while Levallan delicately tears into a heel of bread with his teeth, "I've requisitioned the rookery to expand the library."

Lavellan's eyebrows rise. "Oh?"

"Mm, yes. They'll be cleaning up bird shit for weeks, but it seemed the soundest choice. I didn't want to infringe on needed space, and Leliana—pardon me, I meant _Divine Victoria_ —has departed..." Dorian sighs and stirs his own stew, so fresh and hot steam wafts from it and tingles his fingers. "Well, let me know if you want me to cancel preparations."

"Hardly. The rookery wasn't in use any longer, and you have free rein to do what you like with the place."

Dorian narrows his eyes.

Lavellan continues, blowing thoughtfully over his spoonful of stew. "Although more books means I may not see you until the new year."

"I've read them already," Dorian says. 

"As though that's ever mattered. I've seen you reread a volume five times."

Dorian shrugs. He put aside his issues because this is something he wants, and moreover it's practical; there's shelving in storage, and plenty of people in the keep enjoy reading. He complained about the lack of Tevinter literature before, and now he has the remedy in dusty boxes waiting to be unpacked and put to good use. Lavellan's apathy, or unwillingness to deal with such matters, benefits everyone in Skyhold—this one time.

"It's a useful thing, reading, when you're a mage. I've never questioned where my affinity for books came from, but I know enough to be grateful for it." 'Affinity' doesn't encompass his hours spent studying in front of a crackling fire, or snuffing lamps with a whispered spell seconds before his mother checked on him, reading late into the night yet again. Or later, studying under Alexius, reading old tomes in Ancient Tevene until he fell asleep on them.

"You and me both." Lavellan shares one of his rare grins across the table at him. "Grateful for your remarkable mind, I mean."

"Among other things," Dorian says, and greatly savors his next bite.

* * *

"We're having a ball?" 

Varric tosses back dregs of watery ale. "Apparently, and soon," he says grimly. "Vivienne's suggestion. She thinks we're not doing enough to foster relations with nobility. Josephine agrees."

"They're not wrong." Inwardly, he casts a preemptively exhausted eye over the main hall, considering its dimensions and décor. Everything will have to change, absolutely everything, and when he had only started to appreciate its hodgepodge charm. "Just when we'd gotten rid of the Orleasian hanger-ons, too."

"I hope you didn't plan on sleeping any time this age," Varric says.

"You're the Inquisition's new spymaster; surely you can come up with some way to delay them?"

"Say that louder, why don't you?"

"Oh, please. You send so many whining messages to Leliana, there's no cachet in intercepting them anymore."

"I thought I smelled that bracing sludge you put in your hair all over my letters."

"I'd never." In fact he hasn't, but there are whispers of Varric's new and not-so-secret position all over the keep that he'd have to be deaf to miss. Most of them are harmless, but a few are particularly snide. While Dorian would prefer it if Leliana continued to skulk about in her rookery, cupping Thedas' fate in her hand like a child's toy, obviously her power is greater and better placed as the Divine. And Varric's an all right sort. A dwarf with hidden depths. Dorian sighs at his own pun and refills his and Varric's tankards from the jug they've commandeered.

Eventually, when the silence brews for too long, Dorian asks, "How's the job been treating you?" 

"It makes what I used to do look incredibly small time, that's for sure," Varric says. He's hunkered down, so clearly exhausted that the top of his head barely comes past his tankard. "That, and I've lost all time to write."

"What will the world do without another scintillating update?"

"Laugh all you want, but _Hard in Hightown_ 's given me a considerable nest egg. When all this is over, and the Inquisition is nothing but a legend, I'm going to be living in disgusting opulence while the rest of you are shilling for free drinks."

"Well, I'm never one to sneer at money, especially if it's hard-earned." Dorian clinks their tankards together and licks a splash of ale from his finger. "Are you all out of ideas, then? Or are Leliana's shoes really that hard to fill?"

"My publisher's breathing down my neck about a sequel, and I can churn them out like butter, but not when I'm spending days locked up in the war room, or constantly having to hold hands and smooth ruffled feathers." Varric snorts. "You know, for a bunch of supposedly hard-nosed assassins and spies, Leliana's envoys are surprisingly sensitive."

"I can't imagine the change in management went over well."

"We had a few quitters, it's true. And every spy worth a damn is trying to pull one over on me to see if I'm any good, but I can keep them in line." He sounds perpetually amused, even when he's barely able to keep his head up and his entire right hand appears to be smeared with ink. Dorian appreciates the artifice.

Varric heaves a great sigh and pushes back from the table. "Well, shit. I guess I'd better get to ball-planning if we want to do this before the weather turns."

"Please tell me you're not in charge."

"Okay," Varric says slowly, squinting at him. "Then I'm not in charge."

Dorian swears with acumen, which reaffirms his faith in the terrible quality of the ale. "The delicacy of guest lists aside, surely Josephine or myself is better suited to turning this rattling pile of stones into something elegant?"

"Don't do me any favors," Varric says. "Besides, I'm sure you've got better things to do than pick out curtains."

"I really don't," Dorian says.

Varric wanders off, and Dorian sits in silence for a few minutes, turning several ideas over in his head.

* * *

As it turns out, Vivienne is more than happy to lend the Inquisitor her prowess in planning the ball—but darling, she has a list of responsibilities and favors as long as the day, and the influence of His Worship would shorten them considerably. Which would of course free her up to help the Inquisitor in return. What a perfect opportunity for mutual satisfaction, don't you think? Dorian snorts and tosses the letter he'd found on Lavellan's desk into the fire—to absolutely no protest; Lavellan only stretches in bed like a lazy cat—but it's Dorian who books them passage the next morning.

The journey to Val Royeaux is a few days, most of the travel spent on a stinking old boat, and then an hour or so to the Ghislain Estate. Servants usher them into Vivienne's private quarters after a journey through mazelike gilded corridors and many locked doors. When they finally enter the innermost sanctum, Vivienne rises from her settee, robes somehow both voluminous and revealing. When she sees Dorian at Lavellan's side, she smiles with private wickedness before smoothing into congenial nonchalance. Dorian trades her a smile of his own, road-weary as it is.

"My dears," she says. "I'm flattered you came all this way."

"Your offer of mutual assistance was too tempting to turn down," Lavellan says.

"Mmm. Would you like something to drink? You look tired from your journey. Tea? Wine?" One sleek arm reaches toward a nearby table, its entire surface covered with food and decanters of exquisite liquor. It looks nearly like an apparition after days without a good meal.

"Water, please," Lavellan says pleasantly, as though not aware they've tracked grit all over her tile.

"I've planned a lovely dinner for tonight," Vivienne goes on, signaling for one of her shadowlike servants to procure them some water. She busies herself with pouring a glass of wine and then taking slow sips of it, sips Dorian would trade several of his favorite books for in that moment. Orlais is difficult in a way that Tevinter isn't, precisely, but it still pushes at bruising he likes to pretend is healed. Getting through their little sojourn is going to require a lot of liquid fortification. "Just a few intimates, nothing too complicated. Perhaps after you've rested and we've all eaten, we can talk business?"

Both Lavellan and Dorian take the ice water offered to them. Dorian presses the cold crystal glass to his lips, savoring the chill without swallowing just yet.

"Of course. I appreciate your hospitality more than you could know, Madame de Fer."

Vivienne laughs, a tinkling sound on the surface but booming with genuine amusement somewhere beneath. " _Madame de Fer_ , honestly. Standing upon ceremony, as if we haven't spent weeks bedding down in tents and wandering the Hinterlands together. It's Vivienne."

Lavellan inclines his head with a smile.

"Don't worry, my lady, we'll scrub ourselves raw before we go near any of the furniture," Dorian says.

"I have no doubt," Vivienne says. "Lucille will show you to your rooms."

Dorian bows out of habit, and real appreciation for the hot bath he knows is coming, and Lavellan does the same. They follow a dark-haired girl to the door, and Vivienne stops them just before the threshold.

"Oh, and Dorian? It's Vivienne to you too."

* * *

" _That_ was Vivienne's idea of an intimate dinner?"

Lavellan scowls at himself in the mirror and tugs at the highest button on his formalwear, fastened just below his chin. The mirror shows Dorian's warped silhouette lounging on their bed, naked, as he watches Lavellan shed his trappings for the night. After healthily partaking from Vivienne's stores of wine, the edges of the room seem as warped as the glass in the old mirror, but Dorian feels too relieved the horrid night is over to worry about being sick.

Also, the Inquisitor's narrow, pale shoulders are a curative sight.

Dorian lazily redirects his thoughts to the matter at hand. "Yes, I think that was _exactly_ Vivienne's idea of an intimate dinner." Twenty guests and a dining table stretching nearly the length of the room is perfectly quaint to her.

Stretching out, he does his utmost to look inviting on the coverlet, but Lavellan's still scowling at himself in the mirror. "Really, amatus," Dorian continues, happy to track every new inch of bare skin. "Did you think this was going to be simple?"

"I thought I was done currying favors from nobles, at least for a little while." He sighs heavily and turns from the mirror, nude but for his smallclothes. The flickering candles in the room are kind, but he would be beautiful regardless. "Vivienne's a friend."

"Vivienne is a fearsome member of the Orlesian court, and a mage to boot," Dorian corrects, drawing back the covers for Lavellan to climb in. "She's as free of ulterior motive as I am charm and wit."

There's a tiny furrow between Lavellan's brows, and Dorian worries it like a smudge with his thumb. That grants him a smile, and a long exhale as Lavellan sinks into his mound of pillows. "Tonight was wearying. Tomorrow will be better."

For him, certainly. Once a good night in a soft bed cures his aches from the road and chases away the memory of the draft in their cabin, he will rise determined and with patience for all of the machinations and hand-kissing. Dorian will wake and find things to occupy himself with while whispers follow him from behind masks. Just the idea of going into Val Royeaux proper to face what he's just escaped at Vivienne's dinner—the scrutiny and nosy questions _just_ polite enough to avoid offense—tenfold makes him want to sulk in his room for the rest of the trip.

He isn't sure what's more bothersome: being treated as a barbaric Vint, or like some dog the Inquisitor has trained to heel.

Still, this is the natural outcome of his choices. For all its ills, his new place at Lavellan's side is better than being exiled in Minrathous, fueled by drink and rage. It's not Lavellan's fault he's chosen such an objectionable partner.

Dorian waves a hand to extinguish the candles and blinks in the sudden dark.

"Vivienne said we aren't needed until the evening," Lavellan says. Dorian snorts. Orlesians are known to sleep in. Lavellan's fingers tap at Dorian's chest thoughtfully. "What do you say you and I make a day of it? Maybe some shopping and taking in the sights?"

"You've rooted me out. My whole reason for accompanying you: shopping in Val Royeaux."

He planned on going himself to replace his muddy, cracking boots and to potentially find clothing options that did not immediately betray their Orlesian roots; the idea sustained him through much of the evening. Now, the notion of company gives him a strange feeling he refuses to entertain. More of Lavellan's time is a boon.

It's too dark and they're too tired to make proper use of the bed. Lavellan's already curling into him, shifting on the bed with a rustle of sheets. Dorian unerringly finds the jut of his shoulder and kisses it, closing his eyes for sleep.

* * *

The marketplace in Val Royeaux reminds him too much of home: stalls stuffed with furs, sleek daggers with jewel-encrusted hilts that scatter rainbows when Dorian picks them up and turns them this way and that in the light, feathered hats, and more ridiculous masks with elongated, beaklike noses. All of it ostentatious, with little practicality, and so expensive none of the items boast price tags.

When his mother managed to drag him from his studies and to the marketplace—usually by reminding him of his own vanity and pointing out a fraying cuff or out-of-season jacket—he indicated his fancy, the proprietor boxed it up, and the family's slaves took responsibility for it. Truthfully Dorian had enjoyed the meat tarts at the south end of the market more than all the rest. He came, he saw, and he selected handstitched pieces that appeared in his room later that day. It was a minimum of fuss—and an opportunity for the Pavus family to flash their coin purse.

It certainly did not involve haggling.

As Lavellan squints at the third leather-wrapped scabbard of the day, Dorian feels a curious rush of impatience and embarrassment. Lavellan has an eye for quality, which Dorian appreciates, but he handles the merchandise like someone's frugal grandmother, or maybe the cook squeezing vegetables for ripeness. After leaving home, Dorian had quickly learned how to stretch a coin's worth, and he's naturally suspicious and therefore not likely to fall for trickery or salesmanship, but something about the oppressive finery of Val Royeaux, the eyes narrowed behind eyeholes that track Lavellan's every move, it all makes him sweat in the breezy midday.

"What do you think?" he asks, holding the scabbard toward Dorian.

"It's lovely."

"They're all lovely," Lavellan says dismissively. "Do you think it will hold up to Cassandra's use?"

"I… honestly have no idea."

Lavellan studies the scabbard for a moment longer, then turns his attention back to the merchant. "This sheath is quite thin."

"Is it, Your Worship?"

"The leather is top quality, but the sinew is—"

"He'll take it," Dorian says, unable to again withstand the inevitable dance of Lavellan trying to talk the merchant down a few crowns and being positively baffled when they demure. "Box it up, please."

Lavellan flashes him a look, but he fishes coins from his purse without another word on the subject, and he takes the parcel when it's finished with his usual thanks.

"What was that about?" Lavellan asks when they'd drawn away from the merchant's cart, out of earshot.

Dorian shakes his head. "If I'd let you go on, we'd never be done in time for lunch. And you know how cranky I am when left unfed."

Lavellan tracks his face, and whatever he sees there does not pass muster, for he frowns. All he does, though, was shift the parcel from one arm to the other. "I suppose we're done, then," he says mildly. "Although didn't you need new boots?"

Luckily, the merchants are grouped close together. A cart stacked high with boots and hats and gloves is only a few feet away. "I do," he agrees. "And then I will treat you to lunch for accompanying me."

"Hmmm," Lavellan says.

Dorian's no fool. For all that he could not find it in himself to bargain, he knows quality when he sees it. He scans the first row and finds nothing remarkable, but near the back is a lovely brown leather pair with tooled detailing and sharp buckles calling his name, and Dorian nods in its direction.

"Five royals," the merchant says.

Damn his nose for the finer things. He keeps his sigh strictly internal and seeks out his purse, only to find Lavellan extending his arm, five pieces of gold glinting in his palm. They clink as he drops them into the merchant's hand. 

"Do you want to wear them or have them boxed up?" Lavellan asks quietly.

Dorian does not recoil at the suggestion. "Boxed. Please."

And then he steps away, for he's already stretched his patience too thin. He makes pretend he's admiring the fountain, and its constant glugging is nearly melodic, but he's not entirely soothed by the time Lavellan joins him, expression shrewd, carrying his newest parcel.

Dorian summons a smile from his reserve of them. "Shall we dine at the café?"

"Does your aversion to favors extend to my buying you gifts?" Lavellan asks. He doesn't hand over the box, or take the arm Dorian proffers.

"Do you realize how much this conversation would be improved over wine and a selection of cheese?"

"Most humans consider gifts from a lover a sign of affection, not a debt."

"Stop being logical," Dorian says, dropping his smile and allowing himself to wallow in his ragged nerves. "You should know by now logic has little place in my tantrums."

"I don't like seeing you upset," Lavellan says, frowning. "Even if the reason is incomprehensible to me."

He can't very well tell Lavellan that his backwater elven habits make Dorian want to dive in the fountain. He reaches for the glossy white box Lavellan still holds, easily balanced on the tips of his fingers. The gesture is sweet and thoughtful, and if anyone can shit upon Orlesian social conventions and get away with it, it's the Inquisitor. Dorian takes in a long, steadying inhalation.

"Thank you for the boots," Dorian says as sincerely as he can. "It's a lovely gesture, amatus. But I'm still paying for lunch to assuage my wounded pride."

The café owner declares their lunch on the house, as happens during most of their meals out these days, but Dorian leaves a handsome tip.

* * *

Vivienne finds him in her library. She doesn't blink over his handling of her rarest books, merely cocks her head at him and drifts forward in her long robe. Despite the marble floors, he hears no footsteps, which only deepens the illusion of her floating towards him. 

"You're up late," he says. The sleepy hour gives him the feeling that they're the only two people in Thedas, tucked between shelves. All of the guests and most of the staff are off sleeping, working themselves up to morning hangovers. 

"I've seen little of you since your arrival." She brushes a begrined hand along spines of books that seem to purr in her wake. "I thought you might want to share a nightcap."

"I would never turn down an invitation from you." Part of him is loath to leave so many titles he has yet to acquaint himself with. 

Dorian's reluctance does not show on his face; Vivienne is just that sly. She hums and turns her shorn head up to the towering shelves as if taking in the sky on a sunny day. In not much more than a moment, she selects two books from separate shelves far above their heads, sleeves whispering as she floats them down and places them in his arms. He hurries to adjust, clumsy with surprise.

Dumbfounded, he glances down and reads what they are. "Venhedis, a first-edition Mortalitasi? This is—" He chokes on stating its worth. You can take the noble out of Tevinter, but you still can't make him talk about money. But what Dorian holds in his arms, dozens would kill for, and hundreds would sell to provide for their children's grandchildren. "Have you lost your mind? These should be under lock and key. Possibly armored guard." 

Vivienne laughs. "What need have I for Necromancer tomes? I've had more fun reading children's stories than those. Take them and come."

"I'm asleep," he says, following her at a distance that means he doesn't trod on her robes. He keeps staring at the books in his arms like the overprotective and astonished parent of a newborn. "You plied me with some hallucinogen. It's the only explanation."

"You plied yourself," she says. "Or did you forget that bottle of wine at dinner?" She closes the library door behind them, locks it with a twisted silver key, and intones a spell with a cut of a look at Dorian. The door _might_ have been locked when he found his way in—but really, who knows with those old doors, sticking all the time? The spells she'd left behind he brushed off like sand from his clothes. This new one would confound a more experienced mage than Dorian, and burn off all their hair to boot.

"Rude," he says in open admiration.

"Sneak," she counters. "And so terrible at saying thank you."

Dorian clears his throat and clutches the books tighter. 

As they walk through the quiet, empty halls, fireplaces roar to life and warm him. Pretty trick. 

A voice in the back of his head tells him he could make back a substantial portion of his lost inheritance by selling just one of the two books he holds, but the rest of him shouts it down. He'll never sell these. He would have a hard time willing them to someone on his deathbed, honestly. His fingers trace grooves in the Mortalitasi's leather spine. 

Vivienne, like any good host, has drinks easily available all over her estate. The two of them reach a nook of a study, and she pours Dorian a little glass of port so strong it stings the inside of his nose. He regretfully sets the books down in order to partake. The pleasant caramel burn down his throat makes him hiss.

"Cheers." She settles into a high-backed chair and observes him from it openly. He waits for her conclusion, which comes shortly. "You look tired, Dorian."

"Ghastly, then?"

"Either travel does not agree with you, or the Inquisition is wearing you away like rocks at shore."

He snorts and drains the rest of his port. If it's to be this kind of conversation, he needs fortification. He's weary, it's true, and unbalanced by her. His edge from years of court, as unenthusiastic as it was, dulls the longer he stays away from Tevinter. And Vivienne is as formidable as his own relatives. "If this is the cost of the books, please spare me. I'll give them back."

"Now who is rude?" she says, but clearly unbothered. Amused. "Sit."

He pours himself a few more fingers of port and takes it to sit next to her. "Why are you so concerned?"

"Oh, I'm simply bored. Or curious. Tell yourself whatever you must if it helps you be honest."

"You're being ridiculous."

"You're slipping, Dorian. A spoiled only son of Tevinter nobility knows how to accept a gift when he's given it. He is greedy and entitled and barely polite, not a stammering peasant given something extravagant. He knows how to sit at a dinner table and charm the entire group with outlandish tales. He doesn't sulk into his plate and snap at silly questions."

That was quite the accounting of their dinner. "Perhaps I'm just tired."

"I have no doubt. What may allay your tiredness?"

"Good sleep, perhaps less wine." He sips more of the port after giving a sarcastic salute with the glass. "Less machinations."

"You are in the wrong business for that."

"I'm in the wrong _empire_ for that."

She studies him more, the details of his face. The lines at his forehead, which he'd gotten in his early twenties. Not even thirty yet, and his face is threatening to become a map as crinkled as his father's. "The Inquisition will follow you nearly everywhere you go. And where it doesn't, Tevinter will."

Dorian stands, pulse suddenly in his throat. He makes to look at the upholstered walls, fine gold thread, probably hand-embroidered. "What do you suggest?" he asks eventually.

He didn't hear her get up, and the soft touch of her hand to the back of his head startles him so much the port trembles in its crystal glass. "Sleep tonight. A soak tomorrow. A haircut." She tugs at a lock near the front and then steps back. Dorian looks at her over his shoulder, perplexed. "A walk in the gardens. A good meal."

"Those sound like the activities of my infirm grandmother." Led around the grounds by a servant so she might experience the restorative powers of fresh air. "And we're leaving tomorrow."

"You have enough time for a bath and a haircut. You look appalling."

He has to laugh. "Yes, they do not install salons and tailors on ships. How dare they."

She ignores him. "In many ways, you aren't the man I met so many months ago. Generally that is a good thing. The Inquisitor is a good match for you. But do not lose yourself in him."

"I would have to see him more than once a week for that to happen," Dorian says. The port worked fast. His bitterness doesn't complement its taste. He knows, too, that he's said too much, and Vivienne's face is solemn now.

Her extended silence is telling. Dorian ducks his head. "Then you should be in bed with him instead of drinking with me, hmm?"

"You may be right."

She lets him go with what's left of his grace, books back in hand, but halts him by the door. "Rest easy, Dorian."

"You as well, my lady. Thank you for the drink and the company. And the books," he says, though it tightens his throat.

"It was nothing."

* * *

Josephine whisks Lavellan away the moment they enter Skyhold's hall. She catches him up on diplomatic developments and asks after their trip and Vivienne in the same breath. She flashes Dorian a wide grin over her shoulder, full of robust white teeth he doubts have ever been within a foot of tobacco, and Dorian waves tiredly at her before he and a servant climb the stairs to the Inquisitor's quarters. His new boots are beautiful, but he's yet to break them in; the leather is too tight and pinches with every step. 

The second the door's closed, he sits on the bed and—with no small amount of exertion and an increasingly impatient series of yanks—pulls off the boots and lets them clunk to the floor.

Then he falls back against the mattress and closes his eyes. The bed, freshly laundered when Dorian is definitely not, emits traces of Dorian's oils and Lavellan's airy, indefinable scent. He means to get up and check the status of his project, and the library relocation, or to address the mountainous pile of letters he saw on Lavellan's desk, but his gritty eyelids are heavy. They drag him down within minutes.

Several hours after he fell asleep fully clothed and still covered with the grime of travel, a tentative knock comes at the door, and he jolts to an upright position. The light from the fire is dwindling, so he sends a fireball at it and raises his voice over its cheery roar.

"Come in."

There are two servants: an elf holding a covered plate, and a dwarven woman who'd lugged a metal bathtub up two flights of stairs.

"Sir Pavus, His Worship suggested you would like supper and a bath."

"His Worship, as usual, was right. Thank you."

Lavellan had clearly checked on him, as Dorian's boots are tucked in a corner and there's a glass of water by his bedside. Dorian stands on sore legs and partakes of dinner while the servants bring up pails of heated water for his bath. He does not like to bathe in company, not even that of slaves or servants, although not for prudishness—he simply enjoys the pleasure of a long soak in solitude. The last one he'd indulged in was at Vivienne's, practically on her orders, and his skin feels parched at the weeks-old memory of lounging in her large marble bath.

It takes the pair of servants a few trips to fill the tub, and he gives them a few silvers rattling around in his purse out of gratitude.

Supper is fire-roasted meat and root vegetables, a tankard of objectively terrible but delicious beer. The piece of bread served with it is nearly as large as the platter, crusty to the point where the corners of his mouth are in danger, but chewy and well-buttered. He takes care not to smear the butter or grease from the meat on the letters he pursues, most of it for Lavellan and too dull to bother sneaking a peak at. Not that Lavellan cares what he looks at. Nearly every night they lay in the dark and exchange stories of their day, if they aren't both on the verge of passing out mid-word, and Lavellan has told him far more than Dorian could learn rifling through his mail.

Requisition lists and inventories of Skyhold's stores. An updated census of residents. Invitations. Limp-wristed threats. Groveling for favors.

His father's handwriting, addressing a letter to Dorian. Mixed in with the rest. Halward must have paid extravagantly to have it delivered so quickly. Dorian opens it before he can second-guess himself.

_"My son,"_

Dorian snorts.

_"I hope you enjoyed the apples. This year's batch produced a markedly sweet cider."_

"Is this sweetness supposed to represent our familial reconnection?" Dorian mutters as he reads, too annoyed and engrossed to care that he's wiped his hand across his mouth and smeared butter into his mustache. He feels nearly feverish, scanning so quickly the words scarcely register. "Oh—yes, yes, it is."

He finishes the letter, which is filled with more exasperated warnings about his public place as the Inquisitor's bedmate—Halward Pavus actually wrote those words, "the Inquisitor's bedmate," he'd actually acknowledged it—and strange, contradictory pride over Dorian's reputation as someone who helped save the fucking world. And another plea for him to listen to reason and come home.

Dorian looks at the letter when he's done, an innocuous piece of paper sitting on Lavellan's desk, surrounded by missives that could decide the fates of entire cities. At one point he picks up a pen, but he sets it down and calls for a servant.

The letter stays on the desk, unanswered. When Lavellan finds it, he put it in the pile of Dorian's correspondence. Dorian waits for several days with tensed shoulders for Lavellan to bring it up, but he mercifully says nothing about it.

* * *

"What in Andraste's name is so important it can't wait until after lunch?" Varric asks. Dorian's as light-footed as a halla compared to Varric's tromping as they go down the stairs. "Josephine'll kill me if I don't finish the seating chart before she gets back."

"I promise you, this is a matter of supreme importance to the Inquisition."

Varric heaves a heavy sigh, and he nearly trods upon the backs of Dorian's boots as Dorian comes to a stop. "Why didn't you say so? Did we catch another would-be assassin? I told you before, interrogate them however you like. I don't care if you give their toes frostbite."

"As much as I appreciate your confidence in me, this isn't about another halfwit Venatori trying to pose as kitchen staff."

"Thank the Maker."

Dorian leads them deeper into the depths of Skyhold. He can smell and hear the kitchen now, and Varric apparently can too, as he perks up and veers in its direction. Dorian catches him with a hand on his shoulder— _shockingly_ muscular, and in need of a good massage—and directs him back on course. Varric groans. "No, this is serious. Top secret. Pertaining to the performance of trusted Inquisition agents."

"Shit, really? Has someone gone rogue? Who is it? Is it Vivienne? Sera? Cullen?"

"No, although I will try to forget how readily you assumed our friends had turned on us," Dorian says. " _Cullen_?"

"Spymasters are naturally suspicious," Varric shrugs. "Not for nothing, Sparkler, but Leliana wasn't convinced you weren't a Vint spy until… well, she might _still_ have her doubts."

"Divine Victoria is a paranoid hag," Dorian says pleasantly. "Do not let her milky complexion fool you."

They're nearly at the vault, and Varric's expression is starting to turn bewildered. He squints his already squinty eyes at Dorian, who attempts a look of innocence, tucks his hands behind his back, and says, "As I was saying, said member of the Inquisition's performance has been slipping recently. Long hours, not enough breaks, skipping meals. I thought he needed a stern talking-to, and perhaps some specialized care."

"What in the Void are you talking about?" Varric asks.

Dorian opens the door to the vault's library, recently cleaned of all cobwebs and insidious little curses and moldy tomes from centuries past (the most dangerous of which have been placed in Dorian's possession), now twinkling with lanterns and covered in tapestry only a dwarf from Kirkwall would find homey. Stacks of fresh paper are ready and waiting on a desk built for Varric's height. There's even a place to display Bianca.

"Your own personal writing nook. No one comes down here, and I've paid the servants to ignore and misdirect people who might come looking for you. It gets a little cold from time to time, I'm told, but it's very quiet."

Varric is silent, weary eyes narrowed as he studies the desk, the wallpaper, then darts his gaze back to the desk and its piles of papers. There are pens and stamps and twine and envelopes and even some pouches of dried fruit in the drawers, touches Dorian arranged himself.

Dorian is not prone to grand gestures, and he has a complicated relationship with favors that he's been forced to stare in the face far too often recently, but he knows the protocol is usually delight, even if it is faked. Varric continues to stare.

"I've rendered you speechless, I see. Well, allow me to talk while you bask in my thoughtfulness. You are working yourself into an early grave, and we simply can't have that. You're a friend, and the only spymaster we've got. Also, Cassandra's been moping over your lack of updates, and I'm sure the unwashed masses are equally eager for more of your throbbing bosoms and heaving members, or whatever smut it is you write ab—"

"Sparkler," Varric says slowly, the corners of his mouth twisting up into a terrifying grin. "You're a damn genius."

"Well, yes," Dorian says. "That was never up for debate."

"You're saying they can't find me down here?"

"I'm fairly certain they'll figure it out, and if there's an emergency someone will bust down the door, but it locks, and only you and the head maid have keys."

Varric smiles wider and chuckles, shaking his head as he surveys his tiny private kingdom. "I'll be damned. Do you think they'll let me bring some sort of a cot in here? Do you think it'd fit?"

Dorian leaves Varric his key and slips away silently, a feeling of odd, warm pressure in his chest that dogs him the rest of the night.

* * *

Even the farthest, dankest corner of Skyhold can hear the shouting and general revelry of Iron Bull and the Chargers' arrival. Dorian puts aside the business of selecting tableware—it's all ugly, and nearly all of it gifted from nobles who likely unloaded unwanted solstice gifts of their own—and meanders down to the yard, unable to hide a fond grin. Bull's great shoulders are visible above the chattering crowd, slick with a midday shower that stopped just in time for their arrival.

"Would it have killed you to come inside? Now my new boots are muddy," Dorian complains, and Bull claps an enormous hand on his shoulder.

"Nice to see some things never change," Bull says. He grabs a tankard of ale from someone with the poor fortune to be standing near him and thrusts it into Dorian's hands.

Eventually the roving crowd of them—dirty, sweaty Chargers and fans alike—more or less move into the tavern. Dorian has a choice seat next to Cullen, who proceeds to sip the same ale for two hours. Bull keeps trying to buy him another round, and Cullen smiles and waves him off every time; it's only polite that Dorian intervene and accept the drinks on his behalf.

Which means he's stinking drunk in a way he hasn't been since before Bull left Skyhold. Bull only lasted a week or so after Corypheus' defeat. "Itchy feet" was the reason he gave, but "bloodlust" was probably the real answer. For all that Dorian finds the Chargers an amiable and reliable bunch, they have a tendency toward staring unseeingly into space and drawing swords if people startle them, and that doesn't make for domesticity. It had been hard to sit back and watch them depart—fuck, he's so easily maudlin in his cups.

Dorian resists resting his head on a sticky tavern table, and Cullen continues to clumsily deflect advances from yet another pretty admirer while trying to remove Dorian's tankard with one hand. Dorian curls his arm protectively around the tankard and glares at Cullen's stupidly handsome profile. It seems like he and his admirer have been having the same stilted conversation for twenty minutes.

"Have I ever tried _what_ the Orlesian way?" Cullen asks her, puzzled.

"She means sex," Dorian says helpfully, and blinks with dazed pleasure as Cullen stiffens like a fussy cat. Dorian laughs at his pinched face—and sees the bobbing of horns over Cullen's shoulder. He leaves Cullen to fend for himself and makes his way through the packed tavern, using chairs and the edges of tables and a few shoulders to keep himself upright.

He's nearly to Bull when he realizes he left his ale behind and that Cullen won.

"Dorian!" There's a pretty girl sitting on Bull's knee, and a prettier boy at his elbow, looking appropriately intrigued and intimidated. 

Dorian waves a flourish. "Your Bullishness."

"How've you been, you sly bastard? Where's the Inquisitor? You been keeping him too tired to come have a drink with the rabble?"

"Never mind that," Dorian says. "Please tell me you're staying for ball. The ball. We're having it, and you're coming."

"We're here for a few weeks, Lavellan's orders. I think he wants us as security in case any of the nobles get stabby."

"Goody," Dorian says. 

He loses the rest of the conversation, but he knows they have it, and at one point Krem stands on a chair and sings something that made the hair on Dorian's arm stand on end, and he remembers asking Bull how two people plus Bull worked—

"Wouldn't it break the bed?"

"Who said we were gonna fuck in a bed?"

—but most of the night is as murky as a Fade dream. Dorian does recall Varric and Lavellan arriving, the distracted but indulgent smile Lavellan gave him as Dorian absolutely did not ineffectually paw at him, thanks very much, and the sensation like a draft of cold air overtaking him as Lavellan had to go and make the rounds. He remembers Varric sitting off in a corner by himself, looking troubled in a way that doesn't suit him.

Dorian wanders over and plunks himself across from Varric.

"Nice to see Josephine let you and the Inquisitor out your cages," and Varric harrumphs into his drink. When Varric continues to say nothing, a sliver of alarm pierces Dorian's inebriation and self-pity. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing. I'm just questioning my entire existence."

Dorian's unfortunately still too drunk to do more than stare at him. Varric sighs.

"Small words, then. I'm. A. Terrible. You-Know-What."

"No, you're not," Dorian says. "You're very short. You're sneaky. You can go wherever you want."

"I guess that would be a comfort if I ever left the war room," Varric says. "But I don't. I'm starting to forget the smell of grass, the taste of fresh air—stop laughing."

Dorian does stop laughing, but only because he's uncomfortably close to vomiting after jostling around. "Who can do this better than you? Leliana is off being Divine, Josephine is too earn-earnest, and Cullen's..." He turns to squint across the room at Cullen, who literally has his back against the wall, as though that will aid him in fending off advances, and he looks like he's standing to attention at a funeral. 

"Why didn't Lavellan give the Iron Bull the position? Bull's spent several decades _as a spy_ , for Andraste's sake. I'm a writer with delusions of grandeur."

"And lots of money," Dorian says.

Varric laughs tiredly. "Yes, I have money. I'm telling you, Sparkler, this gig may kill me before the year is out."

Dorian considers that for a moment, and he finds that he's distressed by the idea of Varric quitting or dying or generally not being around. After all the trouble he went through to set that secret room up, too. "Iron Bull," he says finally, "would be a terrible spymaster. He'd tell everyone he was the spymaster. 'Hello, I'm the Iron Bull. Also, I'm the spymaster for the Inquisition.' _No_ ," Dorian finishes, drawing it out a little.

"You may have a point," Varric says. "Balls, but you're drunk."

Dorian agrees.

They're seated awfully close to the tavern's stove, and the side of his body is uncomfortably warm. Dorian pulls at his collar.

"Hey, I never thanked you for your... little present, did I?"

"No. Very rude."

Varric chuckles. "Well, thanks, Sparkler. It meant a lot."

He's never needed a thank you, but getting it makes that ball of happiness return to his chest, and Dorian stares at the table, speechless. Varric reaches over and pats his hand with a calloused one. 

"Go sleep it off, Pavus."

Dorian does not take that very sound advice. When finally he stumbles up to bed, it's so late that Lavellan is already asleep. He distantly, bitterly notes that there's a first time for everything, but Dorian's still too drunk to dwell. The fire is still going, and it warms Dorian's body as he strips to nothing and crawls between the sheets.

* * *

The hangover is monstrous. He barks at two hapless servants as he digs around in the kitchen for the appropriate herbs. Dorian refuses to visit apothecaries for hangover remedies, mostly because he cultivates a public image of someone with no need of hangover remedies. Every movement's like a ship tossed among enormous swells, and the smells of breakfast and preparations for the ball make him shudder. Even worse is the sensitivity to light—he'd seen people in deserts wearing tinted goggles of some design, and he desperately wishes for some, even in the dim, fire-lit kitchens.

When his family's heirloom cure for hangovers is finally mixed to the consistency of glue, Dorian sniffs and chugs it in one go. It threatens to come back up immediately, but he forces himself to breathe until that passes. The tonic doesn't work as fast as he'd like, but within minutes he feels more like himself, and he offers his apologies to the worried-looking servants, too timid to go back to their duties.

Normally he'd retire to bed with a good book, but the ball is the next evening, and he's the self-appointed wrangler of the whole thing. Josephine, with Vivienne and Varric's input, arranged the guest lists, invitations, and seating chart, but Dorian is mostly in charge of the menu, decorations, the band they paid a truly heinous sum to travel to such a remote hold, and all of the infuriating details—like livery for the staff, a minute-by-minute schedule, a thorough tidying of the hall and guest quarters—that his mother seemed to do between breakfast and tea time. She inspires fear and shame and an old fondness in him, but most of all a grudging respect for her magical ability and her organizational prowess. 

He mentally consults his to-do list for the morning as he walks into the hall to check decorative progress. All of the dining tables have been cleared; only the throne and some of the statues remain. Luxurious red rugs cover the stone floor, and a temporary wooden dance floor had been built. Food is to be served outside, in tents. Guests can dance and take themselves outside to eat and admire the stars and Skyhold's garden. Truly, the hold isn't designed for such a large gathering, but Dorian can only work with what he has.

Cassandra is standing near the door to Josephine's study and overseeing the bustle of servants as she eats a biscuit with butter and jam. Dorian's appetite is starting to creep back, and he wants to snatch it from her. She has a crumb on her upper lip. He gestures discreetly, and she wipes it away.

"Good morning," she says. He knows for a fact she drank nearly as hard as he did last night, and she has the gall to look as vigorous as a new plant after the thaw. 

"I was starting to miss your dulcet tones," Dorian says. She's been traveling on Seeker business for weeks, and only returned a few hours before Bull and the Chargers showed up. 

"Then you've turned soft, here in Skyhold," she jokes, but she's watching him. It would be no great feat for her, or anyone, to see the lines of tension on his normally impeccable skin, or the paleness of fading nausea and dehydration. "Next time, you should accompany me. Combat is rejuvenating."

"You just want a mage to watch your back, and Vivienne and Solas are gone," he says. Her words sliced him a little, though she can't have known.

"Vivienne and I don't get along—"

"And we do?" Dorian asks, eyebrow arched.

"—and I would not trust that egg-headed apostate further than I could throw him," she says with disgust.

"That would actually be quite far," Dorian says, and Cassandra sniffs in what sounds like pride. "So," he says, and he watches her pop the rest of the biscuit into her mouth. "Excited to don your finery for the ball, Pentaghast?"

"Oh, I am beside myself," she says dryly. "Tell me, does your formalwear have a similarly shoulderless construction?" She gestures at Dorian's bare skin.

"Eyes up, Seeker," he says, knowing he's bested, and Cassandra's laugh is booming. 

"My lord?" A servant is holding a letter and looking quite perturbed. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but we've received the linen shipment from Val Royeaux, and it's…"

Dorian's patience is already a ragged thread, and this nearly snaps it. "Wrong?"

"Yes," he says, clearly hedging, and then, "and also incomplete."

"Fasta vaas." Dorian turns and hurries toward the courtyard. The servant and Cassandra trail behind him. 

He wordlessly searches the stock of the shipment, and most of the exquisite cream tablecloths with gold thread embroidery are there, but there are forest-green table skirts, plain white napkins, and—a predominantly red plaid tablecloth too large to be useful for anything other than dressing Qunari? Dorian swears again and faces the men who brought the shipment.

"Do you have my order form?" Dorian asks tightly.

"We made several deliveries, sir, and there were some mishaps along the way," one of them begins. "Fennel's Finery is prepared to give you a discount on your order." 

"Oh, are they? Listen here, this is—"

"I'll handle this," Cassandra says, stepping from behind Dorian to stand at his side. She narrows her eyes at the look her gives her, then squares her shoulders and closes in on the servant. "I'm sure you have many preparations to see to."

A greater part of him recognizes she's saving him from an embarrassing public moment. He forces himself to incline his head.

"I expect my linens to match, Seeker. The sensibilities of a hundred nobles depend on it."

"I _am_ a Pentaghast, Dorian," Cassandra says with an exquisite lift of her eyebrow, She gives him a little shove with her gloved hand. "Go."

* * *

At Lavellan's side, dressed in velvet and perfumed and oiled to an inch of his life, Dorian feels a curious sort of relief. It's been some time since he's been formally announced, and parties back at home always felt like chess games, pieces maneuvering themselves across the board of the dance floor. Compared to that, standing around as someone's arm candy is downright pleasant. 

Between Dorian, Josephine, Varric, and Vivienne, the hall is resplendent. There's no trace of drafty stronghold; were it not for the cramped space and the irksome remote location, it could be a ball in the heart of a metropolis. 

Lavellan's arm tightens around his, and Dorian ascends the stairs into the mass of waiting people. Most of them are masked, as most of them are from Orlais, but a few people from less immediate lands traveled the distance.

Bless his heart, Lavellan navigates them to their nearest servant doling out wine before even saying so much as a word to a starry-eyed guest. Dorian clinks his wine glass to Lavellan's and swallows it fast. He needs to enjoy himself, enjoy the fruits of his labor, and considering where his head has been lately, it's for the best if he has a little help.

"You look stunning," Lavellan intones. He's looking out over the throng of people as if idly surveying them, giving nods here and there.

"Flattery _will_ get you thrilling trysts near the kitchens." He takes a second glass of wine but intends to savor this one. 

"Is that a promise?" 

"Oh, entirely."

They share a benign smile before moving on to safe harbor. Cullen, who looks as delicious in his velvet red as he did before. 

"Hello," Cullen says, looking relieved to have something to do. Vultures haven't started flocking to him yet, but Dorian knows it will happen once they notice how Cullen's cheeks match his formalwear when he blushes. "Quite a turnout, isn't it?"

"Yes, it seems like everyone showed up. Thanks to Dorian, of course."

"And Varric, and Josephine, and Vivienne," Dorian corrects. "I merely oversaw. Minor touches, here and there."

Cullen looks skeptical. "It isn't like you to undersell your contributions. I still maintain you padded your numbers on our last trip to the Hinterlands."

"Nonsense." He did. Dorian absolutely did claim thirty-eight kills to Cullen's thirty, even though the real number was something like twenty-five. "It's nonsense, and I won't hear it."

Lavellan is laughing at both of them, and Cullen seems slightly less tense. "We have to make the rounds," he says apologetically. "My advice? Go stand with Cassandra. She'll shake off anyone on your tail."

"That's not a bad idea," Cullen says thoughtfully, and looks around the ballroom to locate her.

It would be very easy to dislike Cullen, Dorian thinks, if only he weren't so ridiculous.

Lavellan takes Dorian's arm again, and the real tedium of handshakes and bowing commences. He straightens his spine and schools his features, ready to slip back into old mannerisms—charm is an easy mask. 

It's supposed to be, anyway. They traverse the room for ten minutes and exchange pleasantries with a few overly enthusiastic nobles from Ferelden, but a selection of people see them coming and subtly disappear into the crowd. Most of them are Orlesian. Dorian keeps his head up and ignores the weight of attention. 

Lavellan notices too, eventually. A frown tugs at the corner of his mouth. "What do you think it is?" he asks sotto-voce, eventually. They've approached a masked noble and been waved off in favor of a sudden dance with an old acquaintance. 

Dorian's heart clutches in his chest for a moment. Of course he doesn't know. It wouldn't occur to him to know.

"I think, my dear, they're not quite as enamored of the Vint on your arm as you are."

He looks openly startled, and then fury clouds his expression. Dorian stops them both short before Lavellan can storm off and force terse conversation on the unwilling. No need to make _everyone_ miserable.

"There's nothing for it," Dorian says quietly. "This is in your honor, not mine. Show them how magnificent you are—" Lavellan snorts, "—and they'll spread your legend even further. It means more gold, more support. Less threats in the night. It's worth it, amatus."

Lavellan seems to mull it over, and he comes to the same conclusion Dorian has. Confronting it won't change the reality. And certainly there are other people at Skyhold who don't mind talking to both of them, or are willing to ignore Dorian's presence in order to exchange words with the Inquisitor. 

That holds true: Dorian spends two conversations as a piece of furniture, one as a servant—he's tempted to drain the dregs of wine from the glass he's unceremoniously handed—and then he finds a different reaction entirely. A curious one. 

A young woman visiting from Denerim asks him, expression as sincere and without disdain as any he's seen, if he supports the acts of terrorism against the chantry. Then she goes on to ask how he treats his slaves.

"Er," Dorian says.

Lavellan somehow recovers before he can. "Dorian hasn't kept slaves since he, ah, left Tevinter."

"Yes, I am... I don't believe slavery has the uses my countrymen do," Dorian says awkwardly. 

"Oh!" she says. If anything, his terrible answer makes her look more intrigued. "Did meeting the Herald change your views on slavery?"

"I... suppose, yes?" he says, utterly floored.

"How remarkable! Your Worship has had a changing effect on so many," she gushes, turning her wide-eyed stare on Lavellan. Dorian lets out a breath. "I myself let all of my elven slaves go."

Lavellan's reply of "That's wonderful" sounds slightly strangled. Dorian makes the necessary excuses and drags him away. They stay to the edges of the room this time, both of them pale and trying to regain their footing.

"Maker, that was—" Dorian finds himself laughing almost against his will. "I haven't the words."

"I have a few," Lavellan says darkly, and Dorian swats his arm.

"None of that. Andraste's Chosen and all."

Lavellan opens his mouth to reply, but the sound of Dorian's father's name—even half a room away, he can pick it out over the din, like he's been trained to—startles them both into silence. Dorian turns, slowly.

Halward Pavus and his fucking attendants waltz through the room like this isn't the strangest occurrence in all of history. Dorian has gone white and silent, and no amount of worried looks from Lavellan will encourage him to speak.

His father is there. His father is in Skyhold, what's supposed to be Dorian's sanctuary, and his father is dressed in teals and gold with buttons up to his chin. He looks the same as he did before, in the tavern, only he's wearing his Important Dignitary face as he mills about. 

"Dorian—"

He leaves Lavellan behind him as he strides forcefully toward his father. He remembers to temper his steps into normalcy before he's standing face-to-face with him.

"Father," he says, too stern.

"Dorian." Were Dorian a foolish child, he would call the look in Halward's eye hope. But he's grown, and specifically he grew under his father's thumb, ostensibly in his father's image. He doesn't trust it. "You look well, my son."

"What are you doing here?"

"Enjoying the party, and your success," he says, and the appearance of hope fades a little. Dorian feels fierce satisfaction. Good. If he thinks some apples and useless words are enough to assuage this, he's wrong. "I was invited by the Herald himself," he continues, and the floor seems to sink under Dorian's feet. "As Tevinter's ambassador."

"Well," Dorian says, after a moment of shaking off terrible dizziness. "Lovely for you."

Halward must see the misery on Dorian's face, because he actually touches him. He reaches out and places his hand on Dorian's arm. "My son, I've done this for you," he says. 

A part of Dorian is impressed. His father's bucked propriety quite a bit by being here, even more so by engaging in this touching father-son scene in front of all and sundry. But Dorian knows his father, and the only reason he's here is because now he can capitalize on his son's association with the Inquisitor. He's always loved to outshine his fellow nobles, and now he can do it and look proper for it. He can pal around with the elf that saved Thedas and reap the prestige. He can deign to touch his outcast son in public.

"This isn't for me," Dorian hisses. "You've done nothing in your life for anyone but yourself. For your legacy."

"Dorian, how many times must I explain?"

"You could _explain_ yourself into the grave. It isn't enough." He watches the blow land and feels sorrowful, strangely, over the way it contorts his father's face. "It'll never be enough," he says quietly.

Dorian turns and stalks off without another word. On his way out, he snatches an entire tray of wine-filled glasses from a baffled servant. It's not far to his rooms—Lavellan's rooms.

* * *

He's had three or four glasses and worked himself into an impressive fit by the time Lavellan knocks on the door. Dorian's tossed his papers off the desk, then felt badly about it and restacked them, but ultimately his rage bubbled until he found himself breaking Lavellan's favorite pen. He refuses to feel guilty.

"Dorian." Lavellan's voice is calm, patient. "You know I have a key to our rooms."

Dorian says nothing. He thinks he's already too drunk to make sense, and anyway, the last thing he wants to do is say something rending and then find later he can't take it back, but it's also the _first_ thing he wants to do. Better to stay silent.

"I've left you alone to stew long enough," Lavellan says on a sigh, and Dorian hears the key in the lock. "I'm coming in."

Dorian ignores him totally when he does, sitting at Lavellan's desk with the broken pen spilling ink across the wood. That only lasts a few moments, though: he desperately wants to know why this has happened, why Lavellan would do this. Well, it's obvious why Lavellan would do this, why he does anything. He thinks it's the _right_ thing to do, that it will help, and damn whoever might not share his view. They're dragged beneath the wagon wheels of _necessary change_.

"Why did you invite my father?" Dorian asks slowly. His throat feels raw.

Lavellan makes an exasperated noise. "I _didn't_." He comes to the desk and puts a hand on Dorian's shoulder, squeezing tightly. "Ma vhenan, I didn't."

Dorian stares up at him, at the achingly perfect points of his ears, his reddened mouth. "Then why is he _here_?"

"We've been corresponding—please understand," he says, interrupting himself when Dorian looks away again. "We discussed the possibility of his acting as an ambassador, but nothing was official. It wasn't… I wasn't sure it was going to work. I didn't want to get your hopes up."

"I don't think I was ever in danger of that." He slumps in the seat, leaning forward and putting his head in his hands. It lasts only a moment, and then he's upright and able to look at Lavellan again. "He said—Never mind what he said."

Lavellan is watching him carefully, and when Dorian waves a hand as if to dispel the row, absolving Lavellan of guilt, he leans forward and presses a kiss to Dorian's forehead. Dorian closes his eyes and leans into it for its moment's duration.

"You should go back," Dorian says eventually. Lavellan still maintains contact, his hand resting on Dorian's shoulder. "You shouldn't miss your ball."

"Damn the ball. Dorian, talk to me. You think I'd actually invite your father to Skyhold and not tell you? What must you think of me?"

 _The same I think of anyone_ , Dorian thinks, very tired. _And you were writing him and didn't tell me_. "I think I was rattled."

Lavellan studies him and shakes his head. "No, that's not it. You've been miserable for weeks." He pushes himself between Dorian and the desk, even if it takes some uncomfortable maneuvering. "My amatus," he says, and Dorian's throat nearly closes. "Talk to me."

Putting his growing melancholy and frustration into words seems an insurmountable task. He calls for something less direct, something to make Lavellan understand who he is. That seems oddly important, his past, even though he's spent years outrunning it. Perhaps seeing his father in person again shook something loose. "When I was a child," he says, and glances at the ceiling to collect his thoughts. "My family hosted any number of visiting dignitaries. Mostly Vints, but a few people from across the sea. They often brought extravagant gifts, and we curried their favor with gifts in return."

Lavellan's brows draw together until there's a familiar and admittedly adorable crease between them. Dorian nearly smiles.

"My father gifted a third-cousin, nearly my age, with a magnificent steed. Now, you know I'm not much for riding, and obviously I wasn't then either. But I saw this cousin, this brat, with a copper-colored foal that _I_ wanted." He tilts his head, remembering. The cousin went on and on, even boasting to the slaves. He dragged Dorian out to the stables just to look at it, where he stood in a corner, murderous with jealousy. 

"Of course, I couldn't just take the horse. It was a gift, and believe me when I say that Tevinters are serious about gift-giving etiquette. I even considered setting it free, but I imagined this poor horse stranded in the marshes, hungry and cold. Eventually, as I grew more spiteful of my cousin by the day, I thought of the perfect solution: give the horse to someone else. 

"So I did. I gave it to an Orlesian noble. I was jealous, and I took satisfaction from making someone feel as badly as I did. My father…" Dorian laughs darkly. "He decided it was easier to renege on a deal with family than to piss off a powerful Orlesian. He paid for it handsomely, but my cousin never saw that horse again."

Lavellan's brows rise, and he waits in the silence as if expecting more of the story. "Why are you telling me this?" he asks eventually, dubious.

"Because," Dorian says, sounding it out like he might for a child. "I'm a nightmare. I'm a jealous, spoiled Vint who can't stand playing second-fiddle, not even to you."

He does not expect Lavellan to start laughing. It's an awkward sound, and Lavellan looks just as thoroughly awkward doing it. "You're trying to convince me you're jealous that I have to run myself ragged appeasing nobles all day? Dorian, you _loathe_ appeasing nobles."

"Yes, but—"

Lavellan wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. "Oh, Andraste. I shouldn't be laughing." He sobers, breathing deep. "You opened your heart to me, but all I can see is how wrong you are." He reaches forward and cups Dorian's face, running his thumb along his jawline affectionately.

Despite the way he wants to shiver, Dorian scowls. "Yes, because I don't know my own mind."

"Not in this. You've somehow managed to twist the best parts of you into the worst. Dorian, you want to _help_. And I'm not blind: you want more of my time as I do of yours." Lavellan's expression turns sad and as filled with tenderness as Dorian has ever seen it. He almost has to look away. "You're bored and frustrated. That's all. You're not going to steal ponies in the night."

"I never stole it, and it wasn't technically a pony."

Lavellan hushes him with a kiss. It doesn't last long, just a brush of mouths that Dorian finds himself suddenly starving for, and he pulls Lavellan closer when he breaks it off. 

"Where are you going?" Dorian asks, fisting his hands in Lavellan's lush tunic. He still feels unsettled, and a part of his brain is screaming at him that his father's just downstairs, but Lavellan's kiss felt like benediction. "Kiss me. Or you can say more misguidedly nice things about me, that's fine too—"

"We're talking, after," Lavellan says, biting Dorian's lower lip. "I haven't touched you properly in an age, have I?"

"No," Dorian agrees, and saves Lavellan from a very unfortunate ink stain as he tries to lean back against the desk.

He steers them to the bed. Dorian pops a few buttons getting them undressed, and Lavellan is practically worshipful, a nuisance as Dorian peels back the clothes separating them. He keeps kissing whatever part of Dorian he can reach. Dorian's hard in what seems like an instant despite the wine and the raggedness of his emotional state: it's easy to forget himself when Lavellan's mouthing over a nipple or setting himself between Dorian's thighs.

"You should hurry," Dorian says, flicking a tendril of Lavellan's hair. "They're all wondering where you are."

"They can wait," Lavellan says, nipping at the sensitive juncture of groin and thigh. He's right, it's been forever since they fucked and weren't worrying about something, the creep of daylight or Varric's insistent knocking.

"You're a terrible Herald," Dorian accuses. He relaxes against the soft covers cradling him as Lavellan envelopes him in wet warmth. "Busy sucking my cock when you should be— _Oh_ ," he says, blinking dumbly at the ceiling as Lavellan uses his mouth as an instrument of heartbreak. 

After that, he ceases to speak entirely.

He shames himself by spilling too soon, down Lavellan's pale throat. Lavellan slinks up his body and kisses him like a satisfied cat, but he's ready to burst too, and he pants into Dorian's neck as Dorian makes quick work of him. He likes this a lot, almost as much as them on their hands and knees; Lavellan is pale all over, but the tip of his cock turns a tender red that he squeezes until Lavellan's senseless. He comes beautifully, too. 

And then he curls up in Dorian's arms and lets Dorian drag idle hands through his hair. It's mussed to the point of being an amusement now. 

"I told you," he says after long minutes of blissful silence, when Dorian's drifting and enjoying the weight of him. "We were talking later."

"Must we? I'm feeling very recovered. Not even a little melancholic."

Lavellan somehow pushes himself into a sitting position, staring down at Dorian. He still looks wrecked, and terribly fond. "Do you really think you're jealous of me? Truly?"

Dorian huffs a sigh but thinks about it. He remembers the tinge of panic that came with the thought of losing Lavellan, the odds that it might. He thinks about how boorish and awful he finds all of the hand-kissing and politesse Lavellan suffers almost daily. He thinks about what it would be like if people stared at him with such reverence. 

It's bad enough that the ones who don't distrust or despise him on sight come up and ask him of his heroic feats in tremulous voices. If he wore the mantle of Herald, he would probably live in a very remote cave.

"No," he says accusingly. "I think I'm jealous that you get to change the world while I select linen patterns."

Lavellan trails his fingers down Dorian's chest and makes a thoughtful noise. "And what of your desire to change the world? Do you still wish to reform Tevinter?"

Dorian squints at him. "Where are we going with this? You know I do. But that will take years. I'll be lucky to see it done in my lifetime."

"Yes, probably. But that was your plan, once the Inquisition ended. Go to Tevinter and change it."

"The Inquisition hasn't ended, you'll notice," Dorian says. 

"Yes, ma vhenan, it has. The parts you signed on for are over. We saved the world, and you stayed in Skyhold for me, not for the Inquisition."

Dorian doesn't know what to say to that. Acknowledging the truth seems like a terrible burden, but he can't make up some falsehood.

Instead of succumbing to the same sadness Dorian feels mounting, Lavellan plops back down and lies on the pillow next to him.

"I have a proposition for you," he says, in his most Heraldlike tone, while Dorian is busy staring at him. "If you don't object, I'll make your father the Inquisition's ambassador to Tevinter." Dorian makes a face. "It's contingent on your being named a special envoy, of course. Or," he muses, pursing his lips, "if you'd like the ambassador position for yourself, it's yours."

"What," Dorian says, "are you blathering about?"

Lavellan turns onto his side to look at him, rustling the pillow. "You need to change the world, Dorian. And I think I can help you." His gaze narrows, and he looks truly impassioned. "Will Tevinter society reject you if you're the Herald's consort? If you're an ambassador?"

Dorian blinks. He isn't quite sure of what he's hearing, but already his mind is whirring to weigh the options. It's what he wants, and what he's longed for, and he and his father could for once in their life be a united force. Ultimately, his only objection is: "But leaving… Tevinter is an ocean away. More than."

Lavellan levels him a serious look, the depth of experience beyond his years in his eyes. "They make very good boats," he says solemnly. "And what do you know it," he goes on, "I travel so much. The Inquisitor's counsel is needed through so much of Thedas. Even in Tevinter."

Dorian is speechless. He wants to touch Lavellan, but touch isn't enough. Lavellan watches him for a moment, and eventually he smiles.

* * *

Putting himself together is easy enough, even though his hands shake when he does it. Dorian has a spare set of formal attire, and so does Lavellan, and so in the space of ten minutes they look presentable again. Lavellan combs his hair until the strands shine sleek and straight, and he gives Dorian a bolstering kiss before leaving their quarters.

"Think about it," he says, imploring.

Dorian will miss his lovely eyes, he reflects as Lavellan turns and leaves the room, but he thinks he might miss his ass more. He spent hours muddy and sore, walking for days and weeks, but Lavellan's ass in his breeches as he led the charge was always a sustaining sight.

Dorian's a menace.

He fiddles with his hair for a few moments after Lavellan leaves, does a quick, pointless survey of the room, wincing at the broken pen. He knows he has to go downstairs—he's not leaving Lavellan to fend for himself, he thinks, not while he's still here in Skyhold and capable of standing at his side. But the idea of leaving has given their quiet rooms with its popping fire and magnificent view a new meaning. He's not in any hurry to leave it right now, not when he's leaving it for a long while soon. Probably.

He makes his way downstairs and reenters the swing of people. He manages to smile at most of them, even the ones with slitted stares in his direction.

Halward is standing with Josephine, and it looks like they're sharing stories. Josephine is laughing, and Halward's smile is as close to real as Dorian's seen it in public.

When Josephine notices him, she brightens considerably. Dorian gives her hand a kiss, even though he normally despises it. Her perfume is sweet, girlish, pleasant, exhibiting nothing of her sharper qualities that Dorian admires as much as the others.

"Here he is," she says. "Dorian, I was just telling your father about some of your exploits. He's quite the captive audience."

"I'll bet," Dorian says, bemused. His father stands to the side, silent now that Dorian's there. Josephine picks up on it and masterfully excuses herself, going off to charm whatever wretched creatures she encounters. He watches her go, and he catches a glimpse of Lavellan across the room, holding court.

Dorian squares his shoulders and turns to his father. "I want to talk to you about Tevinter."


End file.
